Shades of Grey: Duskport
by D. C. Copeland
Summary: What makes a hero? If it is a pure heart, humble persona, and selfless personality then, it can be assumed, the world has none. One man's hero is another man's villain. There are only men and their actions. That is all. Reviews returned.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Feel free to skip this brief intro and get right on ahead to the story.

_Duskport_ is the first novel in the (soon to be) _Shades of Grey _trilogy. I have been writing it since summer of 2010 and am aiming to have it completed before the world ends in 2012 (that would be nice right?). Anyways, what you guys are reading is my first rewrite, I hope you enjoy.

For those of you who were already followers of Shades of Grey and are wondering where the other story went, I have taken it down so as not to have a duplicate story progressing. From here on out I will be posting the rewrite as I complete it. You will probably notice most major changes near the beginning. If you, for any reason, would like to see the later chapters that have been taken down, feel free to PM me about it. Hopefully, this way you will be able to receive a bit more frequent updates.

Shout out real quickly to Bien, if he reads this, sorry for the wait.

I love reviews and can take criticism, please dump them on me in copious amounts.

Peace bredren, Now read…

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

"_If a wizard dies in the dark, does anyone know?"_

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><p>The perpetual murky darkness of Duskport cloaked the two figures standing in the recess of the lopsided building. The constant drip drip of water could be heard as the last dregs of the previous storm trickled down from the massive crack that spanned the cavern's ceiling some two thousand feet above. Rain was a rarity in Duskport as only a small strip of the city, located directly underneath the giant cavern's abrasion, received any direct moisture.<p>

The two men, one short and the other tall, wore heavy black cloaks to protect themselves from the misty remnants of the rain that made it to the bottom of the enormous cave. Both had their cowls pulled low to conceal their features, a sight not uncommon to the murky City of Shade. They watched the street before them with rapt attention, eyes raking the street from the depths of their shaded faces.

To the casual observer they appeared to be just two more of Duskport's dubious inhabitants, eyeing the crowd for a potentially profitable purse. A closer inspection of the pair would suggest otherwise however. Beneath their cloaks hung masterfully crafted weapons; a short sword was belted at the shorter figures waist and two exquisitely crafted maces hung from loops on the taller form's belt. Their eyes gleamed with the savage intent of a predator as they scanned the rapidly thinning throngs of mismatched cutthroats so common to the city.

Duskport, because of its location buried deep within the sea cave, never really saw much light, despite the sliver of sun that shone through the ceiling's crevice for a scant three hours a day. However, neither did it ever see true darkness as the luminescent moss and lichen that covered the cavern's walls cast a uniform, dusky glow across the city at all times, giving it its name. Due to this lack of exposure to the sun, most people lived according to their body's internal clock, waking and sleeping when they felt it was necessary. Because of the difference in people's internal time telling abilities, there was generally only a two or three hour lull each day in which the majority of the city slumbered.

An hour passed and still the two figures maintained their silent vigil. The broken patches of predated cobblestones interspersed with areas of dirt and rock were beginning to show as the crowds thinned. Beggars, tired of whining and pleading for coin, crawled off to whatever wretched holes they could find. Shop keepers began to close up their shops as the inflow of people subsided, deciding it was probably time to get some rest themselves. Thieves scurried off to do their silent work and strong-arm enforcers relinquished their turf to the denizens that prowled the quiet hours of the early morning, Duskport's only real quiet time. Through all this the watchers remained motionless as statues, their eyes fixed on the ruined street before them. It had taken much planning and many sly words for them to arrange what they hoped was about to happen and the wait was well worth the potential gain.

Silence reigned as the street finally emptied, the last few shop keepers and their bodyguards hustling out of the shadowy avenue. Time passed and the shorter of the two stalkers began to get impatient.

"Looks like he isn't coming," the little man whispered with annoyance as he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relieve his cramped muscles.

"He will be here," breathed the taller man without taking his eyes off the street, "just be patient."

"We have been waiting here for hours," persisted the shorter one, "what if our intel was wrong?"

"You mean your intel."

The little figure gave a conceding shrug and reached up under the cowl to scratch his nose. "Aye, my intel." His patience was wearing thin and he was ready to be gone from this muggy, damp location. The heavy wool cloak was plastered to him with sweat and water and was beginning to itch terribly.

"If your intel is no good then I have no use for you," replied the taller man coldly. Disgust bled through his words like an open wound, revealing his own barely withheld frustration as he struggled to control his mounting ire. "If you cant then…" he trailed off, his eyes fixed on slight movement at the end of the broken cobblestone street. The tall man smiled beneath the cowl and nudged his companion in the arm. Perhaps their luck was turning around tonight. Slowly the two watchers hands slid beneath their cloaks and released their respective weapons, making sure to keep them quiet as they slid from their sheaths.

The movement at the end of the street solidified into definite shapes as the figures moved closer through the gloom. There were two people walking side by side. One was a young half-elf, perhaps in her early twenties, with thick, strawberry blond hair that hung well past her shoulders and startlingly blue eyes. An array of freckles was scattered across her nose and cheeks but if anything it only added to her exquisite beauty. Under one arm she held several large, leather bound books while her other hand covered her petit mouth as she laughed gaily at whatever story her companion was telling.

The other was a man of middle age, with streaks of grey gracing his brown hair and a pair of crescent spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He wore long black robes with silver filigree lining the edges and had a set of three rings adorning his left hand which was gesturing animatedly along with whatever tale he was spinning to the pretty half-elf.

The taller watcher tensed and nudged his diminutive counterpart again, "You didn't mention that Valanie would be here as well."

The smaller man shrugged callously, "I didn't think she would be out this late but it doesn't matter, so long as she doesn't see us you know that he won't let her come in harm's way."

The tall man made as if to reply but fell silent as the Valanie and her middle aged companion moved within earshot. The pretty young half-elf was still laughing merrily at her counterpart's tale, though the man was speaking in such a low voice that neither of the darkly clad watchers could catch more than a few sparse words.

Both cloaked lurkers held their breaths as the conversing pair passed by the nook where they reclined in the shadows, barely feet from them. The watchers counted three paces past before they made their move, raising their weapons and rushing out from their concealed location. What they found though, was not what they had anticipated.

The bespeckled man stood facing them calmly, his hands resting within the long pockets of his voluminous black cloak. Behind him, looking slightly apprehensive stood Valanie. Both men pulled up short and hissed in frustration from the depths of their cowls, lowering their weapons slightly and stalking off in opposite ways around the waiting man. The brown haired man gave an interrupting cough as if to say that he did indeed see them. "May I help you gentlemen?"

The man's voice was cold and stern, that of someone used to giving commands and having them obeyed. The two lurkers gave pause on opposite sides of the man for the briefest moment, cast one look at the nervous Valanie, then sprinted full speed towards him. The brown haired man was ready for them though and even as they moved his hands raced through the beginnings of a spell.

Both lurkers were less than a pace away when the wizard finished his spell. Waves of force rolled out from the man, cracking the cobblestones and sending both charging assassins flying backwards into the numerous piles of rubbish that lined the streets. Dazed but unhurt by the forceful expulsion, the two men scrambled back to their feet only to be met with the angry wizard's next magical assault. A lightning bolt thundered across towards the shorter lurker, who threw himself aside in a desperate attempt to avoid the deadly missile. Wood and bits of stone flew wildly as the spell hurtled past the diving man and blew a sizeable chunk out of the building behind him.

Standing ten feet behind the battling wizard, Valanie seemed hesitant. Unsure of whether to step in and aid her battling master or give him the space he needed to properly fight, she fidgeted nervously with her stack of books. Her indecision did not last for long however as her middle aged mentor spun to face her.

"Go Valanie I will take care of these ruffians. Back, back to the Dusk Palace and don't stop for anything until you get there." He spun to face his attackers once more. "I will be along shortly."

The half-elf maiden gave a jerky nod then turned on her heel and hustled up the street and off into the darkness. The short lurker smiled beneath his hood; so predictable. The distraction cost him however, as the wizard's next spell rolled in.

A ball of force hurtled through the air and struck the man in the chest, hurling him across the cobblestones and sending him skidding into a small rickety cart which promptly collapsed on him.

The other lurker, expecting an opening, surged towards the wizard with his maces poised to strike. The blow never came though as the wizard barked out a command word and simply vanished, reappearing some thirty feet further down the street.

Maintaining his momentum, the tall lurker continued to bear down on the wizard who hastily threw up his hands and muttered an arcane word. Flames roiled out from the middle aged man's out stretched hands, forcing the tall lurker to throw himself to the ground. The lurker waited for a split second as the deadly inferno raged above him before he leapt to his feet and swung viciously with his mace.

The wizard back peddled furiously to avoid the blow but was not quite quick enough. The mace scraped across his brow, knocking his head to the side and sending him staggering to the left.

There was a clatter from the side as the shorter lurker dragged himself out of the wreckage of the cart. He was covered in dust and splinters, but overall, didn't seem too injured. His eyes lit up as he saw the stunned mage and he quickly slipped a small glass vial out from under his cloak and hurled it at the staggering wizard. As the glass connected with the stones at the man's feet, a pillar of flames roared to life, engulfing him utterly and causing the taller lurker to shield his face from the hellish heat.

As quickly as the inferno had appeared it vanished, leaving a scorched blast radius upon the cracked cobblestones. The middle aged wizard was nowhere to be seen.

"Did we get him?" asked the shorter lurker, moving over to join his taller companion by the edge of the blast marks.

His question was answered almost immediately as a lightning bolt thundered inches above his head, close enough to rip his voluminous hood off and send him sprawling. The other lurker spun on his heel to face the reappearing wizard who was stepping out of a shimmering blue portal.

The tall lurker hissed in anger and resumed his reckless charge towards the middle aged wizard. This time though, the mage was prepared for him. Pulling a small purple crystal from one of his numerous pockets he threw it up into the air, uttering a string of three guttural words. The crystal hung in the air for the briefest of moments before shattering into a thousand pieces. There came a ripping sound as the very fabric of reality began to tear and a gaping purple portal comprised of swirling vapor formed some twenty feet above the charging, cloaked man.

The tall lurker came to a skidding halt and looked up with apprehension at the swirling portal above him. Understanding the danger he was in he threw himself aside but was unable to escape the wizard's second, perfectly timed spell. The man suffered a gut-wrenching feeling as his feet lifted off the ground and he began to "fall" upwards. He thrashed and clawed at the air but to no avail as he "fell" into the purple portal and vanished from view. There was a snapping, cracking nose and the portal flickered out of existence.

The wizard, having been expecting the rapid change in gravity, had enacted a levitation spell and now floated calmly back to the cobblestones as gravity returned to normal. Blood poured freely down the right side of his head and his robes were burnt and singed in many places but his face was cold and poised. Setting his jaw, he stalked towards the now de-hooded lurker who lay face down on the cobblestones, moaning and holding his slightly smoking head. The wizard placed his heel on the downed lurker's shoulder and flipped the groaning man over onto his back revealing a sharply angled face with dark, beady eyes beneath a fop of curly, mousy, brown hair. The wizard's eyes widened behind his cracked glasses and he took a slight step backwards.

"You!" he exclaimed taking another step back, "What is the meaning of this?"

The mousy haired man gave a week chuckle from the ground, "Aye, me."

"But why would," the wizard continued to splutter, still trying to come to terms with this newest development, "I mean when the Dusklord finds out!"

His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. "So you've been the trait…"

He was cut off midway through his sentence by a loud crack. His head snapped oddly forward and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, revealing the taller lurker standing in front of a vanishing blue doorway of his own that quickly blinked from existence. Looking down at the dead wizard's crumpled form he tossed the contents of his left hand, a cracked and blackened mirror, onto the man's back.

"Yes Emmanuelle di Agriegan, he is the traitor."

Stepping over the corpse, the tall lurker proffered a hand to the still prone, mousy haired man, who took it and hoisted himself to his feet.

Surveying the battle torn street and Emmanuelle's body the mousy haired man nodded in satisfaction. "A good start then."

His companion looked around for a moment before conceding to the point. "Aye," he nodded, "a damned good start."


	2. Judgment

**Chapter One: Judgment**

"_A half-truth is the most cowardly of lies."_

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><p>A hundred leagues south of Duskport, across the glittering waters of the inner sea known as the Vilhon Reach in a port city called Hlath, stood a man in chains. Shackles, firmly clamped around his wrists and ankles, were attached to chains which snaked across the cool stone floor to iron rings bolted deep into the granite. Runes of binding were etched deep into each shackle and they crackled dangerously as they drove exterior magical energies away.<p>

A mix of braids and dreadlocks hung heavily behind the man like a mass of vines which snaked down his back and around his shoulders. Beneath the ropey hair he wore a black leather vest and beneath that, a red leather cuirass could be seen. Simple dark brown, cloth pants, held up by a length of leather cord and a pair of soft leather boots completed his outfit.

From looking at the man one could have assumed he was used to money. He was stylish. A gold earring hung from the top of his left ear and a neatly trimmed goatee stretched from his upper lip down to a point on the bottom of his chin. He was thin but well muscled and held his six foot frame calmly, almost casually, as if mocking the court which sat on wooden benches around him. His eyes were half lidded, lazy, sleepy. For all his casualness however, he wasn't smiling.

"Salizar Taviano Lomazzo dra Arabar, second child of Moktar Lomazzo and Adriana Calthari nee Lomazo, second eldest of the merchant household Lomazzo dra Arabar, thirty seventh in line to the throne of Chondath..."

Thirty seventh in line to the throne. Salizar blinked lazily up at the magistrate as the silver haired man continued to read his titles. Why did they even bother to mention that? It was about as meaningful as saying he was whatever number of people away from becoming a god. It wasn't going to happen.

"…more commonly known as Salizar Thrift," the magistrate's booming voice concluded.

Gods, Salizar had to work hard not to roll his eyes. In all his twenty three winters he could not ever remember hearing his entire, god awful title.

"You and your companion have been brought to judgment for your crimes against the nation-state of Chondath, and against the merchant household De'Tavier dra Arabar. As dictated by Chondathan law, foreigners will have no voice in a temple of Justice, therefore you will speak for both yourself and Palcoro Ironskull. Is this clear?"

Beside Salizar stood a dwarf in full plate armor, an odd sight in the tropical heat of the Vilhon Reach. The dwarf was short, muscular, and, for all of Salizar's neatness, equally chaotic. Gnarled black hair covered his head before streaming down to merge with his coequally tangled beard which hung midway down his chest and covered the majority of his face. A crooked nose poked out from beneath his extensive facial hair and two beady black eyes glared up at the human judging him.

Salizar cast a sideways glance at the dwarf, Palcoro, who had also been chained and bolted to the floor. He and Palcoro had been through a lot together and Salizar couldn't help but think that it was slightly ironic that they had already reached their end. He opened his mouth to respond but before he could do so the magistrate raised a hand to cut him off.

"Before you answer, know that a priest of Kelemvor is here with us today. He will inform us should your words be untruthful."

To the left of the stone podium on which the magistrate stood was a beefy man in the long clerical robes of a priest of judgment. His black hair was tied in a tight knot behind his head and his jaw was wide as an oxen's. He nodded slightly as Salizar glanced his way.

The frown covering Salizar's face deepened into a scowl. With a priest present he would have to think of ways to tell the truth while meaning something else. It was a daunting task on the fly. He nodded his understanding none the less.

The magistrate returned the nod.

"Firstly," from behind the podium he brought forth an exquisitely wrought elven hand-and-a-half sword with a silver leaf crafted as the hand guard, "is this the blade given to you by the elven sword master, Elewin Tael'Tamraski?"

Salizar looked up at his sword, for it was indeed his sword.

"Aye, the blade is mine."

The magistrate nodded grimly and stowed the blade back beneath the podium. The old man seemed in no hurry to ask his next question and took his time as he flipped through several pages of notes which were splayed across the podium. At length he asked his next question.

"Are you capable of using magic."

Salizar's eyes flickered to the stern priest for a moment and the magistrate cleared his throat.

"Remember, master Thrift, that we will be aware the instant you answer falsely."

The lazy, half lidded eyes flickered back to the magistrate.

"Yes."

"Excuse me?"

Salizar raised his voice so that all the assembled in the temple of Judgment's circular chamber could hear him.

"Yes, I can use magic. I am a sword mage and have trained under Maelin Tael'Tamraski, brother of Elewin Tael'Tamraski."

The extra information wouldn't hurt him any more than the basic truth would. In fact it might even gain him a little breathing room if the magistrate understood that he had control over it.

"And yet you have not registered yourself with the council of magi." The magistrate's voice was stern and his expression was hard. "You do not bear the forehead dot of a registered magic user. Why?"

The young sword mage chewed his lip for a moment before answering.

"I have been out of the cities for some time," he began slowly. That much was true and wouldn't disrupt any spells the priest may have cast over him.

"You have been back for more than a day though," the magistrate interjected, "and still you have not openly declared yourself to the magi. The penalty for underground witchery is death. As a member of one of the twelve merchant houses of Arabar you know this."

Dark, they had him there. He said nothing but maintained his half lidded glare. Whispers flew around the room in hushed undertones but the mood was clear and it was anything but favorable.

The magistrate held up his hand for silence and the room settled. A feeling of tension and suspicion hung heavy on the still air. Once everyone had quieted the magistrate continued.

"Did you, with this elven blade and elven magic, invade the manse of the De'Tavier family?"

The magistrate's words were posed as a question but Salizar could hear the accusation behind the words. He glanced over to Palcoro but the dwarf's eyes were averted. He understood the predicament they were in.

Slowly, Salizar looked back up to the podium, his eyes flickering unconsciously to the thick jowled, Kelemvoran priest before settling on the magistrate.

"Yes."

Whispers once more echoed around the room but instead of quieting them this time the magistrate just raised his voice.

"Did you slay four of house De'Tavier's soldiers?"

"We killed five."

The whispers increased in volume as subdued outbursts broke out and more than one person seated on the benches cast Salizar and Palcoro venomous glares. The young sword mage didn't know any house De'Tavier members by sight but from the way several of the onlookers shook fists and cursed he guessed that he could probably name a few.

"You say this calmly?" asked the magistrate incredulously. The man's silver eyebrows would have disappeared had his hair line not been receding.

Salizar shrugged, "I would not get far in my line of business if I couldn't."

"And what line of business is that," cried a woman in the crowd, unable to control herself, "assassination?"

The lazy eyes raked across the room to fixate the woman and she fell silent.

"Mercenary work m'lady," the young sword mage replied flatly, "my companion and I are sell swords."

"Your occupation," barked the magistrate in some attempt to return order to the stone room, "is of little concern to me."

Salizar's baleful glare shifted back to the magistrate but he said nothing. Likely the magistrate, and possibly the priest as well, had been paid off by the De'Tavier family and would judge them accordingly. Not that the punishment they would receive was misplaced, the sword mage had to admit, it had just most likely already been predetermined. It was the way it was amongst Chondath's elite. As he and Palcoro's crimes had only involved one family, they would probably be handed quietly over to the De'Taviers after the trial, at which point the noble family would provide their own interrogators before subsequently executing the two sell swords. Especially give that he and Palcoro had-

"Is it true," asked the magistrate harshly, his voice rising to nearly a roar, "that after slaying these _five_ guards you slunk into the De'Tavier family's private quarters and slew Marshall De'Tavier in his sleep?"

Now the man was just trying to hype the crowd. Now they were getting to why Salizar and his grizzled dwarven companion were standing in chains. Common soldier deaths could be overlooked; noble deaths could not.

The dreadlocked sword mage smiled serenely up at his captors. "No."

"But your companion did."

Again Salizar shook his head.

"No."

It was technically true and he cast a sidelong glance Palcoro. The burly dwarf matched his look, questioning Salizar with a glance.

The young sword mage just gave his signature, mysterious smile and winked. He was just dragging the hearing on now but with an inevitable execution looming over him, Salizar was beginning to develop a new appreciation for every breath he took.

The magistrate was looking questioningly at the beefy priest of Kelemvor who simply shrugged and nodded, confirming Salizar's claim. The priest looked just as confused as the magistrate.

"Do you know of how Marshall De'Tavier died?" This time there was less accusation and more question behind the silver haired man's words.

Salizar's gaze once again flitted unconsciously to the priest who returned his gaze with a stern and unflinching expression. He would get no help from the man. He sighed dejectedly, his insolent grin finally sliding from his features as he answered truthfully.

"Yes."

De'Tavier curses echoed around the room from family members observing the proceedings Whispers of _liar_ and _fabulist_ could be heard swirling around the hall like agitated ghosts.

The magistrate's expression darkened, "How did the young lord die then?"

The accusatory tone was back.

"He fell from his window ledge," Salizar replied with another serene smile.

In his head he replayed the vision of the De'Tavier family's eldest son fleeing from Palcoro's vicious axe swings. The man had been surprisingly dexterous in his evasions but had eventually found his back to the window. Rather than face the angry dwarf he had opted to jump. Salizar couldn't blame him.

The silver haired lawmen glared suspiciously at him, "And even though you were discovered in his quarters immediately after his demise you still deny you had anything to do with it?"

Salizar looked guiltily towards Palcoro who gave him a gruff nod of understanding. He was out of half truths he could tell and the dwarf knew it. Slowly, he looked back up at the magistrate.

"We may have provided some incentive," the sword mage admitted at length.

Cries of outrage and flagrant accusations assaulted the two prisoners from all sides as the De'Tavier family and their associates unleashed their seething rage upon the sell swords. It was several long minutes before any semblance of order could be restored.

Salizar could feel the hatred and resentment pressing down on him from every side like an oppressive blanket. He had a bizarre desire to flash his mysterious grin, to chuckle, to laugh. If only the rest of the family knew what their son had gotten in to. The young sword mage was sure they would not have been so hostile. He at least wanted the family the family to know that the hit hadn't been personal. Not that it mattered.

The sound of a gavel hitting stone brought Salizar back to himself. The magistrate had finally managed to settle every one down and was now looking sternly down the length of his nose at the two sell swords.

"For both of your crimes against house De'Tavier I find you guilty and worthy of execution," said the magistrate, rising to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at them. "Salizar Lomazzo, for your inability to subjugate your information to the council of magi I also find you guilty and, as decreed by Chondathan law, you merit execution once again."

Salizar's heart sank. He had thought that would be the verdict, expected it even, but it still hurt to hear his final destination spoken so outright. He looked to Palcoro. The dwarf's expression was hidden by his gnarled black beard.

"You will be moved," the magistrate continued, "tomorrow morning by ship to the De'Tavier family residence in Arabar. May Kelemvor judge your souls fairly."

He rose his gavel and slammed it down onto the stone before him.

To Salizar, it sounded like the peeling of a death knell.

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><p>Gilliam De'Tavier, patron of house De'Tavier, stood tiredly as he watched the two prisoners dragged out.<p>

He was tired from the weight of years pressing down upon his stooped shoulders and with the added weight of grief, they sunk even lower. His hair was grey, as was his drooping mustache but the twinkle in his eye usually reminded others that the old man still had some spark of life left in him. Today, the twinkle was gone.

"My Lord."

Gilliam looked up to see his manservant, Pharon, standing stiffly with his arm outstretched. The butler wore a snug black doublet with crisp black pantaloons and a felt cap with a feather in it. He had brown hair that was beginning to grey and was combed neatly to one side so that it stuck out from the left side of his cap.

"My Lord," the butler repeated, leaning down to help Gilliam from his seat, "your carriage awaits you."

The old patron rose stiffly to his feet with the aid of the butler's arm and began to shuffle his way to the temple's arched entrance with Pharon's assistance. The buildings architecture mirrored Gilliam's mood; grey and forlorn. No decorations adorned the walls and the masonry work was strikingly bland.

As they exited the vaulted entryway the De'Tavier patron looked up at the sky. It too mirrored his vein. Black storm clouds rolled across the sky, illuminated occasionally by intra-cloud lightning. The tropical storms were common to the Reach but for Gillian, the timing couldn't have been worse. It was as though even the weather sought to symbolize his gloom.

"It will pass, Lord De'Tavier," Pharon said as he gazed up at the roiling clouds.

Gillian hoped he was correct in both cases.

A grand carriage was drawn up before the temple and a crisply clad servant stood beside the open door. The coach was pulled by four beautiful black stallions with golden lace interspersed in their well groomed manes. Lord Gillian and Pharon made their way over to the carriage door where the servant helped to guide the elderly man up the metal step and into the interior of the coach.

Before getting into the vehicle Pharon looked up at the driver. "Back to the manse, as quick as possible."

Before the butler could enter the carriage however, Gillian held out his hand and shook his withered head.

"Take us back to Arabar," the old man wheezed, each word sounding more painful than the last.

Pharon looked upon his lord with concern clearly displayed across his features. "But Lord De'Tavier, your surgeons have said that you are still too weak to-"

"Damn my surgeons," Gillian snarled, some measure of his usual spark returning to his eyes, "I'll see my son's murderers hanged if I have to sit in bed for a month."

Pharon looked as though he wanted to argue but instead he bowed his head in acquiescence and looked back up to the driver.

"To Arabar then."

Satisfied, Gillian De'Tavier eased himself back onto his cushioned seat. He would watch the sell swords die slowly, preferably painfully, for what they had done to his son. Marshall had been his eldest child and most suitable to inherit the De'Tavier family fortune. Marshall had made his father proud.

Yes, thought the old noble as he settled himself for the long ride back to Arabar, he would make those mercenaries scream and beg for death before he killed them.

Then he would find out why his son had died.

* * *

><p>Eles Wianar, lord of Arabar, sat upon a shaded balcony overlooking two striped tigers who prowled lazily around the interior of a sun-bleached courtyard. The humid heat did not touch him for around the balcony were runes of magic which held back the oppressive calidity. A decanter of chilled wine sat beside him in a bucket of ice, an expensive rarity in the tropical climate of the Vilhon Reach. Wianar couldn't care less; money was of little concern.<p>

Beside him stood a man dressed in light chain mail and a tunic bearing the colors of Arabar. He had closely cropped hair and a thin mustache which seemed somewhat awkward given his hulking frame. The man, Demarcus Ashby, had barely seen thirty winters but had already risen to the position of captain of espionage and foreign affairs. He had a shrewd intelligence that surprised most and could wield a sword better than the majority of the Chondathian royal guard.

"Two of our agents are well established in Duskport already," said Demarcus calmly, "the other should be arriving within the week."

He had a quiet, deep voice that gave the impression he was trying to calm whomever he was speaking to. A glass of chilled wine sat on the table next to him but it remained untouched. Demarcus was not one to dull his senses.

Lord Wianar did not immediately speak and Demarcus did not press him. They sat in silence for several long moments as the Arabaran lord sipped his iced wine and watched the tigers prowl. Even on the temperate balcony the young captain found himself sweating. The devious Lord Wianar had that effect on people.

"Which gang shall you infiltrate this new agent into Demarcus?" Wianar asked at last. "The Dusk Knives? The Cloaked Ones?"

Demarcus shook his head, "No my Lord. We already have an agent high up in the Dusk Knives and the Cloaked Ones are beyond our reach. We shall send our newest agent to the Red Claws."

"But the Red Claws have already agreed to work with us," noted the lord with an arched brow.

"Exactly," nodded Demarcus emphatically, "all the more reason to keep an eye on them."

A smile spread across the lord of Arabar's face and he nodded approvingly. Demarcus had learned well in the three years since he had taken office.

Down in the courtyard, one of the pacing tigers flopped tiredly into the sliver of shade provided by the high wall of the manse. The animal's ribs could be seen from beneath its glossy fur and a hungry look filled its eyes. Demarcus could see it panting from where he sat and felt a small amount of pity for the beast. It looked hotter than the fourth hell.

"How will you get her unsuspectingly into Duskport?" Wianar asked at length, finally looking over to his captain.

Demarcus stared at his glass of wine intently and for a moment it appeared as though he had not heard.

"She is to be aboard a prison ship destined for Arabar. Her supposed crimes are irrelevant but I have had my agents within the city of shade leak the information to the notorious pirate, Aaron Blackhelm. He will not relinquish the chance for such ripe recruits I think."

The lord of Arabar looked at Demarcus curiously. "And if this Blackhelm does not intercept the ship? What then will you do?"

The big captain shrugged, unconcerned.

"Try again, though perhaps through some other means. The scum of Duskport trust only thieves and killers."

"Only _accept_ thieves and killers," corrected Wianar, "never do they trust."

Demarcus nodded his head in agreement. Duskport was a melting pot of those even other criminal underworlds had shunned. The captain of espionage never could understand how the city continued to function. He aimed to change that, the functioning part at least.

Eles Wianar snapped his fingers and a slave bearing a silver platter with a large, bloody steak came forth. The slave stood silently, staring blankly forward as she awaited a command. At a gesture from Wianar she placed the platter on the table next to Demarcus's untouched cup before giving a slight curtsey and retreating into the darkness of the manse. She was the perfect slave; silent, obedient, and effective.

"How go the preparations for the war?" asked Wianar once the slave had left them.

At this, Demarcus allowed himself to smile and rose to his feet. He picked up the bloody steak from the trey and walked over to the edge of the balcony to look down at the pair of tigers, each trying to avoid the sun as best they could.

"Excellent. Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. Everything goes as planned."

Lord Wianar also rose to his feet and sauntered lazily over to the balustrade. He looked from the steak in Demarcus's hand, up to Demarcus, then back to the steak with slight disgust as though he couldn't believe the captain was actually holding the raw piece of meat. When he spoke though, the wily lord kept his voice casual.

"What do you expect to happen once everything falls into place?"

Raising his arm, Demarcus threw the piece of meat down into the center of the courtyard. Both tigers froze for a moment as the unexpected treat landed directly between them and they simply stared, first at the meat and then at each other. Simultaneously they lunged forward, massive jaws snatching at the food while giant claws raked at the other. Great swipes from claws opened bloody furrows down the tigers flanks and massive jaws latched on to furry throats. Soon blood covered the sun baked stones of the courtyard as the two starved animals fought and died for the meat.

With a sly grin Demarcus turned back to Eles Wianar and pointed to the two battling animals.

"That."

* * *

><p><strong>Authors Note: <strong>Any questions? Feel free to ask. Comments? Feel free to share.


	3. How a Murderer Feels

**Chapter Two: How a Murderer Feels**

"_The difference between a murderer and a hero is a battle line."_

* * *

><p>Purple storm clouds billowed across the vast expanse above the Vilhon Reach to create a massive backdrop for the seascape. Waves rolled and crashed against the prow of the elegant carrack that knifed smoothly through the water, sending plumes of spray up to shower the front of the ship.<p>

Aaron Blackhelm stood on the front of that ship, one hand holding the leading bow line to steady himself as the angry sea attempted to buck him from his feet. The middle aged captain's grey-streaked black hair was covered by a wide brimmed, feathered hat that drooped under the weight of the water that covered it. A thin rapier was belted at his waist, mirrored by a shapely dagger which rested easily in a sheath of its own. Though he was a man of fine tastes, his fashionable clothes were just as soaked through as the hat upon his head and salty sea water dripped from every downward slanting point that it could. If Aaron even noticed the discomfort, he didn't show it.

He turned to look behind him to where the crew of the Wave Raptor battled against the howling onset of the storm. Wind whipped lines from crewmen's hands and unfurled canvas sails as men struggled to batten them down. Despite the difficulties they faced Aaron was unconcerned; this was not their first storm.

Across the deck bounded the Wave Raptor's first mate and navigator, Calvin, with the sureness of one used to such unsteady footing. His long black hair was plastered to him with sea spray and his clothing, though less majestic than his captain's, was equally sodden.

Aaron had met Calvin on the streets of Duskport nearly fifteen years previous and had almost slit the young navigator's throat on the spot. Calvin, then only ten or eleven winters old, had nearly made off with the captain's entire coin purse. If asked, Aaron couldn't have said what stayed his hand that night, perhaps some higher power had guided his hand or perhaps he just hadn't been able to bring himself to kill a child, even a thieving one. Whatever the case, Aaron was glad he had let young Calvin live; the navigator, despite their age difference, had become one of his closest companions.

"Captain," hailed Calvin as he ascended the stairs of the prow castle to stand with Aaron.

Aaron acknowledged him with a nod but said nothing as he stared out at the oncoming storm. Lighting crackled in the distance, illuminating the underside of the clouds like the flickering of some enormous candle.

The deck bucked wildly and Calvin was forced to grab ahold of the bowline. Curses echoed up from below as deckhands lost their footings and slid sidelong across the surf slicked deck.

"The men are worried," Calvin said loudly enough to be heard above the encroaching storm, "they grow wary so close to Chondathan shores."

Aaron looked into his first mate – no, his friend's – face and saw genuine concern. He smiled reassuringly and patted Calvin's shoulder.

"And what do you think?"

Calvin eyed the captain for a long moment, swaying slightly with the ship to keep his balance. His hesitancy said more to the veteran captain than his words ever could.

"You think this is because of my hate for Wianar," Aaron stated flatly, his words coming out a little harsher than he intended.

Calvin looked chastised but nodded none the less. "The Dusk Lord has not ordered this attack. It would seem fool hardy to risk it."

Aaron snorted in laughter as he looked back out across the stormy sea, "The Dusk Lord does not even know we are here. Only Vax is aware of our presence and even he disapproves."

"Why are we here then?"

Aaron turned back to his navigator with a knowing smile. He liked Calvin for his bluntness, his solidity. It helped to keep the pirate captain in check when he lost himself in an idea or adventure that was too extravagant. Aaron had always been partial to a good adventure, at least to starting them. He never had enjoyed finishing them as much.

"Do you know what is on that ship?" Aaron asked earnestly.

Calvin shrugged. "Weapons?"

It was a good guess. Most of what they sought out and sold back to the Dusk Knives was weapons. The gang was, after all, the leading supplier of mundane and magical weaponry in Duskport.

Aaron shook his head, his knowing smile spreading wider.

Calvin arched an eyebrow.

"What then?"

"Prisoners."

Rather than looking relieved Calvin looked even more alarmed. The navigator looked at his captain as though the man had gone mad.

"You want to attack a Chondathan prison ship? What on earth for?"

The prow of the Wave Raptor crashed through a wave, sending spray flying and forcing both men to brace themselves against the taught bow line. Water cascaded over them, drenching each pirate to the bone.

Tiredly, as though accepting defeat against the elements, Aaron gestured for them to return to below decks. It was time to batten down and face the oncoming storm.

"Because," he answered as the pair of them clawed their way across the slippery deck, "this ship will have every person Wianar has found too dangerous to live. Every person he fears who isn't already dead. That is far too good of an opportunity to pass up."

Calvin looked as though he wanted to respond but Aaron cut him off with a raised hand

"That, and there is a magic user among them."

Recognition dawned across Calvin's face. "You are looking for someone to replace Emmanuelle."

The Dusk Knives only archmage had gone missing only a week previous, leaving his apprentice, Valanie, to lead the gang's remaining magical congregant. She was a competent wizard but lacked the leadership abilities and day to day experience of her late master.

They had found Emmanuelle's corpse floating in the harbor a few days after his disappearance. It hadn't been pretty. Valanie had cried for days.

Aaron shook his head as he pushed open the door to his captain's quarters and allowed Calvin to step through.

"It is doubtful that a mage on a prison ship would be powerful enough to replace Emmanuelle, but Valanie and the gang's arcane forces need any help they can get right now."

Calvin eyed him doubtfully. "I still think it is because you hate Wianar."

With a bang the wind slammed the door shut, rattling the glass of the small window pane. Aaron looked at it in surprise before shrugging Calvin's question away and going over to a large liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Turmishan whisky and poured two glasses, passing one to Calvin and taking the other for himself.

Aaron liked whisky, especially when he was out at sea. To him it was an elegant drink, a drink that reminded him of better times, a gentlemen's drink. As he had grown older he liked to think of himself as a gentleman. He had seen more than forty five winters, far more than most who sailed the Reach, and deemed it a worthy reward to a hard life at sea. He had earned his class.

"The ship leaves at dawn," the captain replied, changing subjects, "we will strike them as they pass through the Ssnaak Isles; they won't see us coming."

"It's going to be hotter than the fourth hell though," said Calvin with a dubious expression.

The navigator took the glass and swirled the amber colored drink around for a moment before taking a sip. The whisky was good. Calvin guessed it was very expensive. Aaron always bought expensive drink.

Exasperation finally crept across the captain's patrician features.

"Dark and empty Calvin, are you just going to bitch and moan about this the whole time or are you going to find your manhood and follow my orders?"

The mate grinned; it was hard to get Aaron frazzled.

He sighed, a long exaggerated sigh, then laughed. He couldn't help himself. "You shouldn't have to ask me what I'm going to do."

"Good," harrumphed Aaron before he downed the rest of his whisky in one go.

"Tomorrow we will fight but tonight," he looked longingly at the bottle he had left out, "I need more whisky."

* * *

><p>"If I do this there is a strong chance that I could die."<p>

Scecira Guadlhiem stood with her back resting against the cool stone wall of one of the side chambers in Kelemvor's temple. The room was little more than an enlarged storage closet. She was a beautiful individual with long, glossy black hair that nearly hung to her waist and covered the slight points on each ear that signified half of her heritage. She had seen nearly thirty winters but looked almost a decade younger, never having lost the luster of youth. Her body was both slender and curvaceous at once with slight hips and full, swollen breasts. She would easily have been the prize of any man lucky enough to find himself lying with the haughty half-elf. Scecira knew this, of course. Her looks were just another of her many weapons, no less dangerous than the magical recurve bow that was hidden away in an extradimensional pocket on the ring she wore around her little toe. Scecira was very familiar with all her _equipment_.

As it was, the usual luster was gone from her hair, replaced by streaks of dirt and grime. The tight fitting cloths she usually flaunted had been replaced with the sack clothing of a peasant and large manacles were clamped around each of her wrists. Even her posture was different as she slouched against the wall like one of Chondath's lower class.

"If you do not," stated Demarcus calmly without bothering to veil his threat, "then you certainly will."

The young captain stood across the small chamber with maddening poise. His massive frame seemed awkwardly large in the cramped chamber when compared to Scecira's slender one.

Scecira felt cowed by the big captain. He didn't even seem to notice her looks when she tempted him and she hated him for it. Demarcus was all business and was always professional. She respected him for that, it was something she had experienced little in men, but the bubbling resentment she felt towards him still found its way to the surface of her emotions.

Deciding to ignore the threat, Scecira simply stood there in her rags and chains, waiting for instructions. The entire guise had been Demarcus's idea of course. The man was pure genius, or thought he was at least, when it came to anything involving the espionage branch of the Chondathan military, and Scecira just so happened to fall into that branch.

_Lucky me_, she thought dully from behind gritted teeth.

"You won't die," Demarcus relented with a sigh as he somehow saw through the façade his subordinate had enacted. He paused as if thinking then added, "At least, you most likely won't die."

Scecira just scowled.

"Why don't you just teleport your spies into Duskport?" she asked bitterly, looking down at the metal rings encasing her wrists.

"I do," replied Demarcus with mild surprise. He seemed startled that she had asked that though for the life of her Scecira couldn't imagine why. It was fairly common knowledge, at least amongst the espionage corps, that the big captain's ring granted him swift and immediate transportation.

"Just not me," she concluded dully, eliciting a smile, if not a response, from the young captain.

She looked down at her shackles dejectedly. It was going to be a rough couple of days. Scecira held no illusions of receiving decent or even fair treatment from the men she would be serving time with. What worried her wasn't knowing what kind of treatment to expect, it was not knowing what she could possibly do to prevent it.

"There is one last thing," said Demarcus, dropping his tone dangerously and taking a step across the room to stand before Scecira.

She eyed him apprehensively. "What is that?"

"The other prisoners are never going to believe that the guards didn't have their way with you first. Believe you me; this will be far better than if I had handed you to them."

Scecira didn't even have time to ask _what_ before he struck her across the face.

* * *

><p>After being dragged out of the chambers of judgment, Salizar and Palcoro were led through a series of tight corridors and staircases down into the catacomb-like network of chambers beneath the temple. The building was built like a fortress, with heavy stone walls and few windows that left long stretches of the corridor in utter darkness.<p>

As they made their way deeper beneath the structure, Salizar found himself appreciative of the heavy stone. It kept the oppressive heat at bay though it did little for the moisture which collected itself in little recesses along the wall and ran in rivulets that trickled through the cracks they passed. Perhaps it was as it should be though; a negative to every positive. Or should it have been a positive to every negative?

Salizar still hadn't decided when he and Palcoro were led into a brightly lit room. The sudden illumination stung his eyes and it wasn't until he blinked them back into focus that he noticed the extra guards who had followed them in.

One of the guards - the captain Salizar assumed - stepped up in front of the young sword mage with a grim expression. Wordlessly he drew his blade and rested the tip in the hollow of Salizar's neck.

Salizar didn't move.

The captain didn't move.

Both men glared daggers at each other but refused to back down, although, Salizar had to admit, there was really nowhere for him to back down to.

"We need to take your armor," the guard said at last, motioning with his eyes towards Salizar's concealed red cuirass.

Salizar nodded, he had been suspecting that. Wordlessly he raised his manacled hands before him and presented them to be unlocked. The captain nodded to one of his men, a man with a snaggletooth, and then nodded to the sword mage's manacles.

Apprehensive as he looked, the guard dared not disobey his captain and he stepped forward and reached for a ring of keys hanging from his belt.

Before he could set the key however the guard captain raised his hand once more and ordered him to halt.

The captain looked back at Salizar, his expression cold. "If you try anything mage, even speech, I will cut your throat immediately. Do you understand?"

Salizar bobbed his head once more and the snaggletooth man went to work on his restraints. He hadn't even been thinking about fleeing, not with so many guards present at least. Within seconds his vest had been removed and replaced and his leather cuirass was lying on a table off to the side. A sickening click resealed his fate as the manacles were snapped firmly into position.

Only then did the captain lower his blade.

"Take him to the holding cell," commanded the captain as he turned from Salizar and faced Palcoro, "I will send this one along shortly."

A globule of spittle landed on the captain's boot as Palcoro spat his disgust at the man's feet. The dwarf wore a hard expression that dared anyone to come near him. Salizar knew why too; Palcoro never allowed others to handle his armor.

"No one will take my armor," the dwarf growled in a heavy brogue, fire burning dangerously behind his eyes.

As two guards hustled him out of the room Salizar could hear the guard captain trying to placate and calm Palcoro.

"We will be taking your armor. Just be calm and relax. Don't do anything stupid."

A smile spread across the young sword mage's face as the heavy wooden door swung shut behind he and his escort. _Don't do anything stupid_ wasn't in Palcoro's vocabulary and he highly doubted that the words _calm _or _relax_ had similar connotations to the rage filled dwarf.

It was then that he heard the first guard scream.

The guards on either side of him looked nervously back the way they had come but, upon reaching some undiscussed consensus, continued to escort Salizar deeper into the bowls of the fortress-like temple. Within moments, sounds of the dwarven-caused ruckus had died away and been replaced by the eerie echo of footsteps and the drip drip of water.

It was a silent walk. Salizar's guards spoke not at all and the sword mage was loath to broach the taciturnity. Salizar couldn't believe how many rooms and corridors had been built beneath the surface level of the temple; the place could have survived a yearlong siege. Their combined footfalls created a measured staccato as they marched their way down hall. It reminded him of a solemn drum roll.

At last Salizar was led into a long, rectangular shaped room. The room was divided in half by a lattice work of iron bars that ran in a weave both floor to ceiling and wall to wall. A section in the middle was set with hinges to allow access for the rest of the prisoners who sat sullenly behind the metal barrier. As it was, the gate was currently locked tightly shut.

"These will be your fellow _roommates_ tonight," laughed one of the guards mirthlessly as he unlatched the gate and shoved Salizar through, "go and make friends."

Salizar didn't move as the gate to the cell slammed shut behind him and the guards relocked it. Instead, he stared at the dozen or so other prisoners, trying to gage them. They had clearly already divided themselves into cliques and sat in small groups of three or four as they conversed with one another in hushed voices. As Salizar was shoved into the room however, all the prisoners fell silent to observe him. It took only seconds for their eyes to settle on his manacles which, unlike all of theirs, still crackled occasionally as the anti-magic runes fought off Mystra's weave. Immediately they turned their backs on him and resumed their mutterings, though occasionally nervous glances were thrown the sword mage's way.

It was understandable; magic was highly feared in Chondath after all. Salizar supposed he should have felt grateful for the measure of fear and respect it brought him but he didn't. He felt alienated and, without Palcoro's everlasting but dependable gruffness, vulnerable.

One man sat apart from any other group and it was next to him that Salizar found his seat. The man wore no shirt and burn scars covered most of his arms and chest. His hair stood on end as though he had run his fingers through it one too many times and he had a wild countenance about him that emanated from his eyes.

"Ahaha!" cackled the man, startling Salizar after several long moments of silence, "you are a servant of the Way!"

Salizar stared blankly back at the man, incomprehension clearly written across his blank features.

The man tried again. "You are a servant of the Angles of Flame! Oh yes I see it in your eyes, in your aura that bleeds from your very pours like fingers of fire twisting their way free of material restraints. I have given everything for Kossuth the magma lord. I, Halkor Malthusio have burned my home, my wife, and my children. We all must sacrifice to endure in his endless flame. You too must make this sacrifice or forever be doomed!"

So that was why the man had been left to himself; he was raving mad.

"I'm alright with being doomed," Salizar replied, dismissing the lunatic and moving across the chamber to sit by himself.

Halkor did not relent.

"By the fire of Kossuth this world will be cleansed and all except his chosen shall be consumed in his presence. You must embrace the Fire Lord and all of his words…"

The man continued for several minutes while Salizar sat in stony silence, determinedly ignoring him. Just when he thought he could take the man's senseless babbling no longer the door to the room beyond the bars banged open and in stormed three guards and Palcoro.

The dwarf was battered and bruised and his shirt hung from his shoulders in tatters. The guards had somehow managed to remove his plate armor but from the look of things they hadn't managed to escape the fiasco completely unscathed either. One of them had an obviously broken nose that continued to dribble blood down into his panting mouth while another one, the man with the snaggletooth, was spitting out blood and loose teeth. Salizar thought it a shame that the man's crooked tooth hadn't been knocked out.

With a crash, the guards slammed the struggling Palcoro up against the bars of the cell while the snaggletoothed man fumbled with his keys and opened the door to the cell. The two guards holding Palcoro pulled him off the bars but before they threw him in the cell, they turned him to face the snaggletooth man who pulled back his arm and struck Palcoro across the face as hard as he could.

"That's for Purdag's nose, Aethol's eye, Mal's balls, and my mouth you stupid stunty!" he yelled before slugging the dwarf once more and pushing him back into the cell, slamming the gate shut.

Palcoro just glared murderously back through the bars and spat out a mouthful of blood.

"I am going to kill you before I die," the dwarf promised with a growl as he glared at the snaggletoothed man.

The man sneered back at him and relocked the cell door, "You better be quick about it then dwarf."

Palcoro glared all three men down as they left the room before turning to Salizar indignantly.

"They took my armor!" he said in what sounded like near disbelief.

Salizar only nodded.

The dwarf continued to splutter incoherently for a minute before finally managing to get out, "I am going to kill him."

Salizar didn't know whether his companion was speaking of the snaggletooth man, the guard captain, or both but it didn't really matter. Under normal circumstances he would have advised Palcoro against such actions but as it stood, he doubted their situation could get much worse. He would let the dwarf do as he pleased.

Halkor, feeling ignored, nudged Palcoro's broad shoulder with his manacles.

"You are not-"

It was all he managed to get out before Palcoro rounded on him and stared at him as if seeing the pyro for the first time. The dwarf gave him a quick look before his expression shifted from one of curiosity to annoyance.

"What do you want, huh? Piss off."

Halkor's mouth opened and closed as though he wanted to say something but no words came out. He seemed to finally wither under the dwarf's intimidating glare and sunk back to where he had been sitting before, muttering darkly.

"Who was that?" asked the dwarf curiously as he sank down awkwardly to sit next to Salizar.

The sword mage shrugged, "Some luny."

Palcoro grunted his reply as he ran his tongue over his swollen lip, exploring the damage the guards had done. On anyone else the wounds would have been severe but the tough dwarf hardly seemed to notice, so scarred was the rest of him.

"Aye," he said matter-o-factly after he had thoroughly explored his swollen lip, "this will be swollen for a while."

Salizar could only chuckle.

They spent the next few hours trying to guess what the other inhabitants of the cell were there for in order to pass the time. Most of the time they disagreed. Salizar thought one man was certainly a pedophile while Palcoro swore that he was a horse thief. Two men they could agree on though. A man with bulging neck muscles, a shaved head, and arms like a blacksmith was labeled a murderer almost instantly. The other was a somewhat pudgy, balding man who was missing several teeth and was by far the ugliest man either of them had ever seen. He was labeled a rapist.

"After all," reasoned Salizar as he and Palcoro chuckled quietly together, "what woman would possibly stoop to sleeping with him?"

They had no way of telling time but Salizar felt as though the hours were passing by at an unbelievably fast rate. Perhaps it was just because he knew what lay at the end though.

After some time, the door beyond the bars banged open again and in strode Snaggletooth followed by another guard who was escorting a manacled half-elf. She was bleeding from the mouth and her left eye was nearly swollen shut but Salizar could easily see her beauty through the injuries. The girl was a gem among rocks.

Without a word the two guards unlocked the gate and pushed her through before relocking it and exiting the room. As he left, the snaggletoothed guard blew a mocking kiss and a smirk towards Palcoro who returned the gesture with a murderous glower.

Salizar's eyes however were fixed on the half-elven woman who was standing nervously just inside of the gate. She looked absolutely petrified and Salizar couldn't blame her; she was the only woman in a room full of rapists and murderers awaiting their deaths. He glared around the room reproachfully at the hungry eyed men before pausing and laughing to himself at the irony. He had been looking at the men around him as though they were something worse than he was, as though they were monsters of men or social predators. He had almost forgotten that he and Palcoro were there for the same reasons.

It surprised him to think about it in such a way. After everything he had ever done, all the lives he had taken, he had never once thought of himself as a murderer. He didn't feel like a murderer but what was a murderer supposed to feel like? Bad, or guilty, or something of the sort he supposed. At least that was what he had been taught growing up. Was that what murderers really felt like though?

He eyed the girl again, though not with the hungry gaze the rest of the room was giving her. She couldn't have been much older than he was but perhaps half-elves aged differently than humans. He wondered where she had come from; there weren't very many half-elves in Chondath.

"E'llo there lov'ly," said the fat, ugly man in a sickening attempt to sound sweet and comforting, "why don't you come an sit wit' us ay?"

Salizar could have gagged at the man's insincerity and the half-elven woman seemed to have similar thoughts as she went the opposite direction from the man and sat by herself against the bars just a few feet down from Salizar and Palcoro.

The ugly man rolled his eyes and sighed before using his bound hands to struggle awkwardly to his feet. "Alright, fine then, we'll do this the 'ard way."

As the man began to stalk towards her Salizar nudged Palcoro and cast the dwarf a meaningful glance out of the corner of his eye. The gruff dwarf nodded imperceptibly and shifted his position ever so slightly.

In that moment, Salizar loved Palcoro; the dwarf could practically read his mind.

As the ugly man passed them, Salizar lashed out with his foot and tripped the man who fell with a grunt and a curse, barely catching himself on his manacled hands. Before he could move Palcoro surged up from his seated position and kneed the man hard in the face, shattering the man's nose, before slamming his manacled wrists into the back of the ugly man's head and driving it back into the flagstones with a sickening crunch.

The room was deathly silent as the man lay whimpering at Palcoro's feat; even Halkor had ceased his mutterings to watch the confrontation. Nobody moved.

Palcoro cleared his throat loudly and spat on the ugly man's quivering, prone form. The dwarf wasn't even breathing hard. Without his heavy armor on, Salizar thought that Palcoro looked even more imposing than usual. The dwarf's bulging muscles rippled dangerously beneath the torn cotton shirt that he usually wore beneath his plates and his neck was just as wide as the big man's who sat across the room.

"I cannot think of a day where I wish to see you stuff your cock into something," growled Palcoro dangerously. "Do not spoil the scenery."

The man finally managed to roll himself over onto his back and looked up at Palcoro through disoriented eyes. He had never seen them coming.

"I's just gon' sit wit' da lady," he managed to say around a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

"And I am an elf," replied the dwarf, unmoved.

Turning his eyes from the imposing dwarf the man switched his gaze to Salizar instead.

"You can hab a tun afta," the man spluttered, "I swear!"

Salizar rose to his feet as well and stood next to Palcoro, towering over the man. His normally sleepy expression was hard and cold.

"If I want a bleeding turn," he said dangerously, crouching down to stare directly into the man's face, "I'll take one. I don't need permission from a lopsided whoreson like you."

"Oh come off it," called one of the man's companions from across the cell, "he didn't mean nothing by it. What are you gonna do, kill him?"

Salizar snapped his head up and fixed the speaker with a cold glare, causing the man to fidget nervously.

"I've killed men for less," he snapped.

A stab of guilt rocked him as he realized that the statement was true. Perhaps this was how murderers felt.

Either his tone or his expression must have drove home the point though for the man fell silent and none of his companions chimed in. Salizar could have smiled. The rest of the cell's occupants feared he and Palcoro and amongst criminals, fear implied safety; until someone let their guard down at least.

Beside him, Palcoro kicked the ugly man none too gently in the ribs, eliciting a groan from the still prone man. "Get up you hamshank and go and drag yourself back to your corner. If you come over here again I will kill you. I would say that I would ruin your face but I cannot outdo what nature herself has already done. Now move."

As the man began to obediently crawl back across the floor, Palcoro shifted his glare to the rest of the men.

"We might as well get this over with now. Would anyone else like to try?" he glared around at the seated prisoners. "Since we are already standing anyway?"

Nobody moved except the large man Salizar and Palcoro had dubbed a murder who chuckled in amusement before reclining further against the wall where he sat.

"I thought not," finished the dwarf dryly.

He scanned the room once more before retaking his seat against the wall.

Salizar eyed them for a moment longer before he also settled down next to his burly companion. They sat in silence for a while as muttering filled the rest of the cell. The ugly man's one-time companions now cast disgusted looks at their fallen comrade; so much for loyalty.

"Um, thank you," said a feminine voice from beside them.

Both Salizar and Palcoro turned to find that the half-elf had edged closer to them. She was filthy, but for that matter they all were and Salizar could not fault her for that. What did seem strange however were her perfect teeth, not that perfect teeth were unheard of, but for one of as common descent as she seemed to be it was…less than common. He stashed his suspicions away for later and gave her a lazy smile.

"Think nothing of it. What Palcoro said was true, we didn't want to see some fat whoreson working up a sweat."

She blushed slightly but nodded her understanding.

"Thank you anyway. I would shake your hand but," she held up her manacled wrists lamely, "I'm a bit preoccupied."

Salizar shrugged and held up his own manacles in understanding.

"You got a name miss?"

"Scecira. You?"

"Salizar."

She smiled, flashing her brilliant smile again. "Well thank you Salizar, and you Palcoro. I had thought for sure I was going to be…well, I had thought for sure my last few days were going to be, well, you know."

She trailed off again, leaving an awkward silence behind. Neither the sword mage nor the dwarf said anything. They understood.

"Your last few days are hardly over," said Salizar at last, his sleepy expression back in its usual place, "get some sleep, I'll watch over you, it's going to be a long couple of nights."

"Do not mind if I do," chuckled Palcoro, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall.

Salizar ignored him.

Scecira didn't look as though the idea of allowing a stranger to protect her as she slept was high on her priority list. She sunk back into herself and a cold look passed over her eyes but was immediately melted away by Salizar's reassuring smile.

"If I had wanted to take you, I would have done so. I'm not here to hurt you, I promise."

Tentatively, Scecira rested her head back as well and closed her eyes. After a few minutes her breathing deepened, though it was nothing compared to Palcoro's thunderous snores. Salizar doubted that she was actually asleep but at least she had calmed some.

Tiredly, he rested his own head against the wall behind him and shifted his gaze to rest across the cell upon his fellow prisoners. He hadn't been lying; it was going to be a long couple of days. Despite the tension he felt a small feeling of warmth and satisfaction rise within his chest. He looked at the resting forms of Palcoro and Scecira beside him and the feeling only grew.

Was this how a murderer felt?

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><p><strong>Authors Note: <strong>So, I know we are only three chapters in but...does anyone have a favorite character yet? Just wonderin.


	4. A Sea of Salvation

**Chapter Three: A Sea of Salvation**

"_Freedom comes with a price."_

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><p>Salizar held his silent vigil until his eyes felt as though they were bleeding and his limbs hung beside him in weariness. None of the other prisoners had tried to repeat the ugly man's mistake and most had finally drifted off to sleep. Salizar yawned widely and did his best to stretch his cramped and aching muscles before he nudged the sleeping form of Palcoro with a foot.<p>

Instantly the dwarf came awake, his years of living by the sword showing as he reached for a weapon that wasn't there. It took the dwarf a few seconds to reorient himself to his surroundings.

"I'm going to try to get a minute or two of shut eye," Salizar said tiredly as he stifled another yawn, "keep an eye out right?"

Palcoro just nodded as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and settled himself against the wall.

It was several hours before Salizar woke to the sound of the door being slammed open. He struggled to his feet, attempting to drag himself from the depths of his slumber but by the time he had fully oriented himself with his surroundings guards were pouring into the cell and pulling prisoners to their feet.

A length of chain was brought in and the guards began to fasten each prisoner's manacles securely in place, spacing them out at even lengths to form a long procession. Salizar did not struggle as the guards fastened him in place but as the guards turned to Palcoro, the dwarf squared his shoulders and stared resolutely back at them.

"You are not chaining me to that," he growled icily, glaring around at the assembled guards.

One of them began to move towards him but the snaggletooth guard held him back.

"Allow me," the man sneered, drawing a heavy wooden club from a loop at his belt.

Stepping forward, the man swung the club hard, striking Palcoro in the stomach and nearly doubling him over. The tough dwarf was not about to be taken so easily however and, regaining his breath, he barreled forward into the guard, knocking him to the ground. Rushing forward, Palcoro leapt on the man and began to head butt him savagely in the chest, slamming his forehead repeatedly into the snaggletoothed man's sternum.

Vehement cries sounded as other guards pulled out their own clubs and rushed to subdue the wild dwarf.

Salizar watched wordlessly as they pummeled Palcoro into submission, striking him in the back of the knees as they ripped him off their fallen companion.

"You whoreson," roared the snaggletooth guard as he struggled back to his feet, "I'll teach you a lesson or three!"

He raised his club to strike Palcoro again but before he could a commanding voice sounded from near the door.

"Enough, chain him with the others."

Everyone looked to the door to see the guard captain standing expressionlessly watching them. The snaggletooth man looked as though he wanted to protest but thought better of it and satisfied himself with a vicious kick into Palcoro's stomach.

"Get up you useless lump," he snarled down at the dwarf.

Palcoro just glared back.

The captain watched as the guards dragged Palcoro to his feet and chained him behind Scecira before he turned to his men and nodded.

"The ship is here and we will be acting as an escort. You all should know your places, now let's move these whoresons to the docks."

With a wave of his hand he turned and led the clanking procession out of the room and, with no other options, Salizar plodded glumly after.

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><p>Bilge water soaked Salizar's cloth pants as he sat with his back to the wall of the large communal cell and rested his head back against the heavy wood. He had given up attempting to stay dry; the filthy water was omnipresent. The heavy, rune ensorcelled manacles still bound his wrists together, though the chains binding his ankles had been released. From above, he could hear the shouts and cries of men but they were muffled by the interposed levels of ship in between. Still, they sounded more agitated than usual. Salizar didn't care though. Down in the prison cells, with the bilge and the muck, the actions of men up above mattered little.<p>

The sword mage sat with his head leaned back against the ship's wall. His eyes were closed, resigned, and he breathed deeply and slowly with the swaying of the ship. He was glad the storm had not lasted through the night; he could only imagine how much water they would have sat in then.

Beside him sat Palcoro, his lip still swollen from where the guard had struck him. The gnarled dwarf had said little since they had been brought aboard and he sat, tapping his manacled hands idly together in a monotonous staccato.

On Palcoro's other side sat Halkor. The pyromaniac giggled to himself in his madness as he fantasized about whatever corrupted scenarios his brain could fathom. Judging from the way Palcoro's jaw tightened in annoyance, Salizar doubted they would reach Arabar before the dwarf snapped and beat the babbling fool to death.

The others in the cell sat in brooding silence, each lost in their own internal conflicts as they weathered the journey to their demise. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

Time passed, though Salizar could not have guessed how much, when suddenly Scecira looked up sharply from where she sat against the metal bars of the cell.

"Something has changed," she said hoarsely, her voice ragged from hours of silence, "can you hear it?"

Salizar strained his ears in an attempt to pick up what the half-elf had noticed. The voices above seemed even more agitated than before and Salizar thought he could make out new voices in the mix, though it was hard to be sure. He did not have the hearing Scecira was afforded by her ancient kin.

He looked at her curiously then shook his head.

Her brow furrowed as she strained her ears to listen before nodding as though confirming something wither herself.

"I believe the ship is under atta-"

She was cut off as Halkor released an explosive laugh, his eyes dancing wildly as he struggled to his feet. The pyro grinned around at them all and laughed again, sounding even more maniacal than before.

"They have come for us, the Angles of Flame. They come to take us awa-"

He too was cut off as a splintering of wood was heard from behind him and several of the other prisoners gasped in shock. Then someone laughed.

A ballista bolt protruded almost three feet into the cell from where it had penetrated the ship's siding. Halkor hung limply from the end of it, his mouth still moving wordlessly as death spasms shook him and he passed.

Most of the prisoners who had been resting against the outer wall of the ship scrambled towards the metallic inner wall but both Salizar and Palcoro remained where they sat. The young sword mage couldn't help but feel slightly jealous of the still twitching Halkor. It was a cleaner, swifter death than they were destined to receive.

"Sword mage," called Scecira from across the cell, causing Salizar to look up, "can you still use magic?"

He frowned and held up the rune marked manacles as a pointed reminder to his entrapment. He could not cast spells while his magic was suppressed.

Scecira nodded knowingly, "But were they gone, would your magic flow once more?"

Now Salizar was paying more attention and he looked up curiously. He cast Palcoro a glance. The dwarf was also looking up curiously and gave Salizar the slightest nod of encouragement.

"Yes I suppose I could," replied the sword mage with a nod, all the while eyeing the pretty half-elf curiously through his half lidded eyes.

With a nod, Scecira reached up with her manacled hands and began to feverishly pick at her matted plait of hair. Salizar feared for a moment that she had gone as mad as Halkor but a moment later she lowered her hands, a thin lock pick in each.

Angry shouts and cries of pain could be heard echoing down the stairs with increasing volume and frequency as the nimble half-elf held one pick between her teeth and began to work on her own manacles.

Salizar watched her work as she deftly altered between the pick in her teeth and the pick in her hand. At last her left manacle popped free and she flexed her fingers to return circulation. It took scarcely a heartbeat before her right manacle dropped to the ground with a clang as well.

There was a rumble like thunder from somewhere above deck followed by a chorus of screams as Scecira scuttled across to where Salizar and Palcoro sat. The sword mage held out his manacled hands and she set to work on them, fiddling with her picks as she strained to hear the locking mechanisms. The magical restraints proved harder to foil however and it was several long, grueling minutes before satisfying click of the locking mechanisms parting could be heard.

Salizar flexed his fingers experimentally as both blood and magic surged back into them. He rose to his feet, still staring at his freed hands though his expression was unreadable.

"Don't just stand there," hissed Scecira as she moved to Palcoro's bindings, "get us out of here."

Footsteps echoed loudly down the stairs and the guard with the snaggletooth came racing down into the hold. His eyes went wide as he saw Salizar standing freely and he rushed for the locked gate to the cell, fumbling with a ring of keys as he came.

"Dark and empty," swore the man as he searched for the right key, "how in the Hells did you get free?"

Salizar ignored him. He reached out his hand in a claw like shape and flexed his fingers once more, allowing his mind to wander the length of the ship in search for what he sought.

The guard wrenched the gate open and pulled out his long sword before stepping over the threshold and advancing steadily on the unarmed sword mage. Several of the other prisoners made moves towards the open gateway but the soldier stared daggers at them and they withdrew. They would not fight an armed man while bound.

"Alright," he said as he advanced warily, "sit back down and put your manacles on again or I'll slit your throat here and now."

Salizar didn't even hear him; his mind was still wandering the pathways of the ship. When he found what he was looking for he grinned and his gaze refocused.

The guard slowed to a stop as Salizar snapped back to himself.

"Do you want me to beat you down first then?" the man asked, raising his blade a little higher.

Salizar's response was only four words.

"_Tysti shas sai ti_."

There was a crackling of energy in the room as a ball of light formed in Salizar's outstretched hand. The ball elongated, becoming long and straight before solidifying into the sword mage's beautifully crafted, elven made hand-and-a-half sword.

Salizar felt the sword's balance in his hand for a moment as the guard stared in both awe and terror at the beautiful weapon. Salizar loved the sword and had carried it for nearly a decade. Every inch of it was as familiar to him as his own arm and as he gave it a couple practice twirls the blade emitted a low hum as it thrummed through the air.

Salizar turned then to face the guard. The man wore a hard, determined expression and raised his blade before he charged towards the waiting sword mage. Salizar had to give credit to the man's bravery. Things had gone from bad to worse but still the man had held his fear in check. Right now though, Salizar didn't have time for bravery.

As the man bore down on him, Salizar uttered a word of power and simply vanished, reappearing outside the door to the iron cell.

The guard spun on his heel as Salizar slammed the iron gate shut and raced back towards the now solidly closed portal, his hands once more scrambling for his key ring.

"I'll kill you for this!" he roared into Salizar's calmly smiling face.

The sound of manacles clanking to the floor stopped him cold.

"I think that he will be busy out there," said Palcoro as he cracked his neck and knuckles, "so why do you not try me for size."

By the time Salizar surmounted the deck, the sturdy wooden planking was already slick with spray and blood. Men bearing all manner of weaponry were still pouring off of a sleek, black sailed ship that had been pulled aside the blockish prison vessel. A pair of elven archers poised high in the pirate vessel's crow's nest were wreaking havoc on the Chondathan soldiers who were trying desperately to form some semblance of defense around the stairs leading to the ship's aftcastle.

Salizar watched a woman bearing a scimitar and a small buckler whirl past him as she dueled with a pair of sword wielding Chondathans. The soldiers were trying to use their superior size and strength to overcome the slender woman but neither could match her speed and within the span of a few seconds she was facing only one opponent.

A shout from his left drew Salizar's attention just in time to witness a cutlass wielding pirate fall to the floor under the combined pressure of three Chondathan mariners. A spear was driven through the pirate's chest just to be sure before the soldiers turned their attention to the motionless sword mage.

A sneer replaced his usual lazy smile as Salizar flexed his fingers experimentally. Both blood and magic were flowing freely. The three soldiers never stood a chance.

The three men had barely taken a step towards him before the young mage leveled his blade at them and spat out, "_Shes._"

Flames rolled out from Salizar's sword like a cyclone, warping and twisting around the blade before exploding in a hungry, all consuming cone that leapt outwards towards the three stunned soldiers with a rabid ferocity. Hair and flesh curled back as the men screamed and burned, thrashing around wildly in an attempt to quell the biting flames.

Salizar stepped past the flaming husks as they crumpled to the floor, his eyes already searching a fresh opponent.

He found what he was looking for by the ship's mast. A corsair wielding a long sword and a scimitar dueled wildly with a shield bearing Chondathan soldier. The pirate was faster but the mariner had gotten the better of him, backing him up against the mast with his shield while attacking the man's legs with a longsword whenever he attempted to scamper away.

Stepping lightly across the deck Salizar rushed the mariner's back, seeking a quick kill, but was intercepted midway there by another mariner. The man feinted high then swung low, forcing the sword mage to skip backwards out of harm's way.

Quick as lightning, Salizar rushed back towards the man, thrusting his blade towards the man's neck for the killing blow. With surprising quickness the mariner's blade spun back up, parrying the blow with a clash of steel.

The two men eyed each other with newfound respect for a moment before attacking again, trading passes that sent showers of sparks cascading across the spray soaked deck. After four passes they separated again, each panting hard, though the mariner was panting harder.

Glaring at Salizar the man reengaged the duel, swinging high for the sword mage's neck. Salizar parried contemptuously, knocking the mariner's blade aside before releasing his own sword and simply punching the man in the jaw. The mariner staggered under the weight of the blow but did not fall.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood he glared back at Salizar and growled, "Is that the best you've got?"

Surging forward again the man entered with a lunge of his own, stabbing his blade towards Salizar's chest while lashing out with a kick aimed at the sword mage's knee.

Salizar parried the sword neatly, deflecting the strike harmlessly wide, but as the kick came in he met it head on with another punch, this time muttering "_Moji_" as his fist connected with the approaching foot. The effect was instantaneous. Bones shattered up the length of the mariner's leg as Salizar's magically reinforced punch sent waves of force up the man's leg and into his hip which popped out of its socket with a sickening squelching sound that was nearly drowned out by the soldier's wail of pain. The young mage swept past him with hardly a glance, ending the man's screams with a casual backstroke.

Looking back towards the mast, Salizar saw no sign of the long haired corsair, though his opponent was lying in a pool of his own blood, twitching slightly as small blue sparks danced up and down the length of his corpse.\

Salizar turned to find a new opponent, only to find that there were none in his immediate vicinity. Pirates swarmed the deck, rounding up the few remaining soldiers and putting down those that would not relent.

A loud roar drew his attention back to the staircase just in time to see Palcoro come limping up from below decks. The dwarf brandished the snaggletooth guard's sword, though a red line trailing blood crossed the outside of his right thy. Salizar doubted the dwarf even noticed.

"Lay down your weapons and you will be spared!"

The shout carried above the cacophony of the battle and Salizar looked up to see a middle aged man standing aloft the stern deck. He brandished an elegant rapier above his head like a banner and, though he was coated with a sheen of blood, held himself with regal poise.

"My name is Aaron Blackhelm," he shouted across the deck, "and you will submit to me!"

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Kinda short. Really don't have much to say on this chapter. If you have questions, message me.


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